Envy(130)

The worst of them was a hollow as large as her fist where a section of his quadriceps had been gouged out. From there a scar cut a gully half an inch wide down the entire length of his right thigh and curved around toward the back of his knee. On his lower legs was a network of crisscrossing scars, some raised and bumpy, while others looked like flat, shiny ribbons of plastic that had been stretched between puckered skin. His calves were disproportionately small and flaccid. He was missing the smallest two toes on his right foot.

Overwhelmed with compassion for the agony he must have suffered, she timorously traced one of the raised scars with her fingertip. “Do they still hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

She looked up at him sorrowfully, then leaned forward and kissed one of the worst of the scars that snaked up his shin. Reaching down, he stroked her cheek. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed the palm.

He said, “Now that your morbid curiosity has been satisfied, can we get in one fast f*ck before breakfast?”

She yanked her head back. “What?”

“I think you heard me.”

As shocked as if he’d struck her, she stood up, reached for her nightgown, and held it against her, a flimsy shield. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing except an early morning woodie that needs your attention.”

She shook her head in befuddlement. The coarse language wasn’t that startling. But he wasn’t being naughty for naughtiness’ sake. No flirtatious wink accompanied his words. He was being purposefully, hurtfully crude. “Why are you acting like this?”

“This is what I’m like, Maris.”

“No, you’re not.”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “Okay, whatever.” He pushed his chair backward, then turned it away from her and headed across the room toward the chifforobe. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Parker?” she called in exasperation.

“What?”

“Why are you acting this way? I don’t understand. What happened between last night and this morning?”

“You don’t remember? Well, let’s see. Between last night and this morning, I’d say your orgasms outnumbered mine about two to one, but after your fifth or sixth, I honestly lost count. Of course, with women it’s sometimes hard to tell when one leaves off and another starts, or if they’re even for real. But if you fake it, honey, you fake it convincingly.”

He’d opened the door to the chifforobe and removed a box from one of the interior drawers. Now he spun around and faced her, grinning cruelly as he looked her up and down. “And I’ll say this for you, Mrs. Matherly-Reed. You’re tight. As a goddamn fist. And wet as a mouth. Very nice. I wonder why your husband went out for it.”

Tears of mortification filled her eyes. Angrily she swiped one away as it slid down her cheek. Hastily, she pulled on her nightgown, the only article of clothing available. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, but I won’t continue this. I can’t match you for vulgarity.”

“Sure you can. You’ve got an expansive vocabulary. Maybe not one as colorful as mine, but if you put your mind to it, I’ll bet you come up with something suitable to say. Maybe on your plane ride back to New York. I assume you’re leaving.”

Not even deigning to answer, she headed for the door. “Wait!” He rolled his chair over to her. “Envy. The final draft.”

He practically thrust the box into her hands, so she had no choice but to take it. She looked at it, then at him. “It’s finished?”

“Has been. All along. From the beginning. What you’ve been reading in installments is the polishing draft.”

She gaped at him. Words failed her.

“I never submit a partial manuscript, Maris. No one sees my book until it’s finished. I wouldn’t have sent a prologue unless I had a book behind it.”

“Why, Parker? Why?”

Deliberately mistaking her meaning, he shrugged. “Personal policy. That’s just the way I work.”

Maris felt as though the spot on which she stood were eroding rapidly and that at any second it would disappear out from under her altogether. But she wasn’t going to sink without a fight.

“That’s just the way you work?” she repeated, raising her voice to a shout. “What the hell was all this for, Parker? Or is that even your name? How many do you have? What in hell has this been about? Why the lies, the games?”

“They seemed like fun at the time. We both got laid. Several times last night you moaned, ‘Yes, yes, harder, faster, Parker.’ X-rated things, too. Sounded to me like you were having fun.”

For several beats, she just stared at him, wondering at what point he had become this sarcastic stranger. Then she hurled the box as far as she could throw it. It upended in midair, the lid came off, and some four hundred manuscript pages scattered in that many directions across the polished hardwood floor and Aubusson rug.

Maris stalked to the door and jerked it open.

Mike was standing on the other side of it, one hand raised, about to knock. The other was holding a cordless telephone. “Maris.” There was no surprise in his voice. He had expected her to be with Parker. Her emotional state, however, seemed to alarm him.

Looking beyond her shoulder, he took in the situation at a glance. The look he gave Parker went beyond reproof; it was that of a hanging judge about to hand down the sentence. Stiffly, he extended the telephone toward Maris. “For you. I hated to disturb you, but the gentleman said it was an emergency.”